Monday’s Mob

by Don Pendleton

  “I can see that, Skids,” the guy said. The voice was not all that mean. It was just … deadly. A small metal object fell to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Yeah. The guy’s marker … a death medal, the dreaded bull’s-eye-across, symbol of the marksman. “I brought him a gift. I can as easily leave it with you boys.”

  At least the guy was talking, not shooting. According to the stories, that was a hopeful sign.

  But Skids, the big dummy, had it read all wrong. Mangone had come the long way—at Venturi’s coattails—and he’s made a place for himself where brutality earned respect.

  There was no visible respect, here, now.

  And Skids just couldn’t read it. The big dummy made a sudden dive for his shotgun, stupid to the very end, deaf to the despairing plea for sanity from his lifelong chum who’d managed to keep him alive and functioning all these years, dead before clawing fingers even reached his equalizer.

  The silver pistol had thundered but once, battering the ears and stunning the senses.

  The dummy’s head virtually exploded in midair, parts of it spraying off toward the windows while the remainder swung the whole body like a bulldogged calf flopping to earth on its back.

  Harry the Apeman remained precisely where he’d been when the moment of truth overtook him, quickly averting his eyes from that horror on the floor, but otherwise frozen, barely breathing.

  But there was no second thunderclap.

  Instead, that same insistent voice with a question which would not be denied: “Where’s Carmine, Harry?”

  So … what the hell. Things had been going sour for a long time. Satisfying connections had been hard to come by and even harder to hang onto. All the pleasures of being a wise guy were fading away, replaced by grim survival in a world beginning to eat itself.

  And what was a wise guy, after all?

  He was a guy who knew how to survive.

  Harry the Apeman Venturi had made an art of survival. And now he had to be smart for only one. He spread his hands and showed a sick smile to the big stoney guy on the stairs. “It’s been a long road, Mr. Bolan,” he said tiredly. “I’m ready to get off.”

  Yeah. Damn right. Harry Venturi was not going to die stupid.

  CHAPTER 5

  FEELINGS

  She was not real sure about her feelings for the big grim man. Oh sure—physically, there were no doubts. God, he was the sexiest thing she’d ever encountered. She tingled just to look at him. But she was not so sure about the other side of the coin. What sort of man did it take to do the things he’d done? How could a man be so … so gentle one moment and … and then go out to do the—what he did—without a grimace of regret, without … well, without what, April?

  What do you want from the man, anyway—an apology?—a prayer for forgiveness?—a melancholy look? Would that make it holy and right?

  She’d come into it with eyes wide open, of course—sure, she’d leapt at the chance! And she’d known all that was public knowledge about this remarkable man. More than that, Hal Brognola himself had briefed her for two solid hours. She’d known, sure. But somehow it was different to read about it, to hear about it—and then to come face to face with the reality of it.

  Mack Bolan was a killer.

  He was not a cop or a spy or anything official. He went around, on his own, killing people. A self-appointed executioner.

  And boy did he look the part!

  That had probably been the moment of truth for April Rose—when she saw Mack Bolan transform himself from Mr. Quiet and Gentle to Mr. Executioner. The black outfit—how symbolic!—the combat rig with all those grim weapons of death, the sudden coldness in those deep, deep eyes and the pantherlike grace of his movements as he prepared for his mission.

  “What are you doing?” she’d inquired innocently, thirty seconds after they pulled away from Tuscanotte’s hideaway.

  But it was very obvious what he was doing. He’d parked the big vehicle at the bottom of the hill and gone back to his armory to select weapons for the kill.

  The moment of truth, sure. Off with the casual clothing and—how handy!—there’s the black union suit already in place and awaiting the accessories.

  Some accessories.

  “What are those things?” she’d asked timidly, pointing to the little shoestringlike coils dangling from the chest harness.

  “Garrotes,” he’d replied, in a voice already growing cold.

  “Garrotes,” she echoed faintly. “You, uh, choke people with them.”

  “It’s a quite kill,” he’d explained with no emotion whatever.

  “As opposed to the hand grenades,” she said.

  “The grenades are insurance.”

  “Against what?”

  “Against being pinned down and unable to withdraw. I don’t really know what’s up there, you see.”

  Yes, she saw. But also she did not see. “Then why go up there?”

  “To see what’s there,” he replied.

  Like the climber who scales mountains because they are there.

  Sure.

  April Rose was feeling just a bit faint, at that point. The whole moment had suddenly become entirely unreal. What was it about the human male that sent him constantly in quest of his own manhood? What primeval instinct lurked within manly breasts to send sturdy, vital young men hurling themselves constantly into one senseless challenge after another? If the world had been a rose garden … well, maybe it had been, at one time. And rfc hadn’t been the woman who caused the fall from grace. It had been a vital, reckless male animal who saw thorns instead of roses.

  April told her male animal, “We know what’s there. Why don’t we just report it out. We’ve found him. Let Washington take it from here.”

  “Where would Washington take it?” he asked quietly, without a pause from his preparations for war.

  “They’ll take it—they’ll come out here with warrants, they will—”

  He was almost smiling as he broke into that confused reply. “Tuscanotte isn’t hiding from the law, April. He’s hiding from his own kind. He’s under no indictments and officially the law has no interest in him. But even if you could get a warrant, and even if you could make an arrest, he’d be back on the streets within twenty minutes. And even if somehow you actually managed to get him behind bars, he’d go right on running his little empire by remote control. Our system was never designed for people like these. That’s why the Tuscanottes are so successful. And that’s why I work outside the system.”

  It was quite along speech, considering the source. And he was ready for his EVA when he finished it. He enclosed her whole face in the gentle clasp of one huge hand and kissed her quickly on the lips, then told her, “Take the cruiser on around the curve and park it off the road. Activate the optic systems and get a picture of everything entering and leaving. If you’re approached, take off. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, take off. In either event, I’ll meet you at the Holiday Inn in Columbus … when I can.”

  She asked, breathlessly, “And if you don’t—you don’t?”

  He smiled soberly as he told her, “Then you call Brognola and tell him that John Phoenix sends regrets to the President. He’ll understand.”

  “Who is John Phoenix?”

  “Someone not yet born,” was the cryptic reply.

  And then the remarkable man had stepped outside and instantly disappeared into the dense timber.

  Leaving April Rose to fuss and fume at herself over a mixed bag of seething emotions.

  She really did not approve of what this man was doing. And she would never understand the government’s motives in condoning such activities, however unofficial that support may be. But as she sat at the optics monitor and stewed in her own emotions, she began to get a clue about all that.

  They condoned the actions, maybe, because they loved the man.

  That was possible, sure.

  And maybe she did, too. Love the man, that is. Physically, for damn sure. And perhaps a bit deepe
r than that. Already, yes, maybe quite a bit deeper than that.

  Dammit.

  She would not give her heart to a man who had not one of his own.

  “So where is he, Harry?”

  “Look, I wouldn’t juke you around. I’m not that stupid. You got to believe that. I don’t know exactly where he is right at the moment. I can’t even contact him. He pulled out of here two days ago—just him and his tagmen. Willie Frio and Fuzz Martin. You know of those guys? They been with Carmine since Day One. He had some meetings set up—some important business parleys—up north somewheres. I think one up in Lafayette, another in Anderson. Those are towns here in Indiana.”

  “So when is he coming back?”

  “Today. He’s coming back today. But not here. I mean, not straight back here. He’s going over to Nashville first. That’s only about ten or fifteen minutes from here. Not Tennessee. Indiana Nashville, little Nashville. They even got a little opry house over there.”

  “Is he singing at the opry today, Harry?”

  “Ha ha. No, not him. You should hear him in the bathtub. Thinks he’s Mario Lanza but that voice wouldn’t sell fish.”

  “So what’s in little Nashville for Carmine?”

  “Another parley. Very important. Some big-shots from Indianapolis. You know, state guys.”

  “Uh huh. Where does he usually hold these parleys?”

  “You mean in Nashville?”

  “Isn’t that where we’re talking about?”

  “Guess I lost my mind for a minute there. I wasn’t stalling, Bolan. He usually goes to the Ramada Inn. He likes the prime rib there.”

  “A little village like that has a Ramada Inn?”

  “Oh sure. Hey, it’s a tourist spot. People come from all around, even tour buses and all that. They get about a jillion people in there every year. October is best. October is crazy, I hear.”

  “What’s the attraction?”

  “Trees. Autumn trees.”

  “Autumn trees? Come on, Harry. What are you—”

  “No, seriously. I mean, that’s why October, but they got other—they got a Dillinger museum there.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too. John Dillinger. He was an Indiana boy, you know. You ought to catch that. Very interesting. FBI guy.”

  “What FBI guy?”

  “An FBI guy owns the museum. Or maybe he’s not FBI now, I dunno. But it’s worth seeing.”

  “Tour buses and everything, eh?”

  “Well that’s just one—that’s—they got art galleries and all that.”

  Bolan chuckled. “You’re quite an entertainer, Harry.”

  “No, I swear.” Venturi chuckled, also. “I guess it’s an art colony or something. These hills are swarming with easels and paintbrushes. Also they do all kinds of native crafts. I don’t mean Africa native, I mean Indiana native, pioneer stuff, you know? They even still live in log cabins around there. They got a jail that must be five hundred years old, I swear. God, I would’ve hated to do time in that joint.”

  “Let’s see if I have you straight now, Harry. We have autumn trees and tour buses and a John Dillinger museum owned by an FBI guy. And we got art galleries and pioneers and a thousand-year-old jail. So people come from all around, about a jillion a year, to keep the Ramada Inn full. That right?”

  “You got it. And they got another big resort hotel there, too. But Carmine likes the prime rib at the Ramada.”

  “That’s why he holds his business parleys there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s he meeting there today?”

  “Like I said, these bigshots from the state capital. He’s trying to juice a couple of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well—like Indiana just passed a racetrack bill.”

  “They’ve been racing in Indianapolis as long as I can remember, Harry.”

  “No I mean horse racing.”

  “Carmine thinking of building a track?”

  “Naw, that’s too much to juice and not enough return. It’s too regulated. Carmine wants the concessions.”

  “They’re building this track in Nashville?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s a local option bill. See, each county has got to pass its own bill. Then if that passes it goes to the state racing commission. That’s where the decision is made. It’s a regulating thing, see, to keep down the number of tracks—to keep them from choking each other out, see. But Carmine says Nashville would be a natural for racing.”

  “Well it’s already got an opry and autumn trees and all that—right?”

  “I guess that’s why, yeah. Actually I guess he don’t give a shit where. He just wants the concessions—wherever. That’s where the money’s at, see.”

  “So he’s meeting these people at the Ramada?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “I said today.”

  “I said today when.”

  “God, I’m not sure exactly when.”

  “Let’s review the ground rules, Harry.”

  “What ground rules?”

  “The ones keeping you alive and me happy. I don’t like you, Harry. I don’t like anything you stand for. You’re a parasite who never once in his life built anything, or preserved anything, or accomplished anything worthwhile for the world at large. Do you agree with that?”

  “I guess that’s about right, Mr. Bolan. I guess so.”

  “Uh huh. That’s the ground rule. The weight of guys like you, hanging on and sucking from everything that’s right and decent in the world is just too damn much for the world to bear. To see you standing here sucking air right now is almost too much for me to bear. But it’s nothing personal. I don’t even know your mother’s name—whether she breastfed you or tossed you bologna on the floor—so you see I don’t really know a thing about you … as a person. But I know what you are, Harry, and that disturbs me very much. I step around cockroaches to keep from squashing them. But I don’t step around people like you. Okay?”

  “Okay, sure, I understand perfectly. You hate my guts. I can understand that.”

  “I don’t hate your guts, Harry. I just can’t live on the same planet with them. I draped garrotes on your two outside boys and I opened the throats on the sleeping beauties out back. You saw what I did to your old pal Skids. Why do you think I haven’t done the same to you?”

  “Because you—because I …”

  “Ground rules. If I blast, you can’t talk. If you talk, I can’t blast. That’s a ground rule, Harry. It overrides my natural desire to rid the planet of your weight. It’s called a truce, a white flag parley. Do you kapish?”

  “I kapish, sure.”

  “Have you ever heard of me violating a white flag?”

  “No sir. I always heard just the opposite.”

  “That’s because I’ve never violated one. But I’ve never been conned into one, either. Know why? Because I’ve been into too many guts just like yours. And I know crap when I smell it, guy. Right now I’m smelling crap. Do we have a flag or don’t we?”

  “Okay, you’re right—you’re right. I don’t know why, either—that son of a bitch never gave me nothing but scraps off his table. I don’t know why it’s so hard to—you can understand that though, I know. Okay. No more crap. Carmine is meeting these guys at the Ramada at three o’clock, give or take a few minutes. That’s his exact words: give or take a few minutes. They’re meeting at the bar. You have to watch it because he always sends his tagmen in first to case the joint. And you’ll never see those guys unless you’re watching real close. They don’t stand around him. They are very savvy boys so watch your ass. He’ll have dinner after the parley. Then back here probably by seven or eight o’clock.”

  “How many in his party?”

  “Like I said, three. Him and the two tag-men.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “That’s the way he always goes. And he’s always back by seven or e
ight.”

  “What’s Carmine’s name?”

  “Huh? Oh I see what—Tucker. He’s using Roger Tucker.”

  “How’s his love life?”

  “He never brings any of it here. But he’s always talking about this blonde or that blonde. I guess he gets it all on the road.”

  “Does he ever get it at the Ramada in Nashville?”

  “In Bloomington sometimes, I think.”

  “What is Bloomington?”

  “That’s a college town about twenty miles on past Nashville, west of Nashville. They call it Beaver City on the CB. I don’t know, maybe ten or twenty thousand cute little things going to school there. Indiana University—the Hurrying Hoosiers, you know. Basketball.”

  “You talking to rattle my brain, Harry?”

  “No. I guess I’m just nervous. You wanted to know his love life. He gets some in Bloomington, I think. I don’t know if it’s college stuff or not. I heard it’s pretty loose on prostitution over there, though. Helluva thing, I say. It’s a college town, I mean.”

  Bolan said, “You worry about such things, huh?”

  “You think I can’t? You think I’m really like you say? All the way through? Listen, I could have a kid going to school there right now. I got kids, yeah. Haven’t seen ’em since they were in diapers but I got ’em. Yeah, I worry about those things.”

  “What am I going to do with you, Harry?”

  “Huh?”

  “How can we seal this deal? If I let you off—how do I know what you’re going to do between now and three o’clock?”

  “I won’t be heading towards Nashville, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Telephones are cheap.”

  “I wouldn’t spend a dime for that guy, Mr. Bolan.”

  “Or to get even with me?”

  “We’re even already. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said, we’re even. Also ’cause I don’t think Carmine is man enough to whack you. And I don’t want you coming looking for me. No sir. Not ever again. If I’m off the hook, then I’m staying off. I’m not stupid.”

  “Is he pushing dope on campus, Harry?”

  “Who?”